


Change

by fairdeath



Series: Two Halves of a Whole [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 05:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11141892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/fairdeath
Summary: After Pidge wormed their way into Shiro’s life and heart, wrapped around his lungs and arteries likes a strangler vine, everything, yet nothing much at all, changed.





	Change

Until Pidge showed up, there was very little substance and meaning to Shiro’s day to day life. Monday through Friday, 8AM until 5PM, Shiro would wear a suit that always pressed slightly too hard into his throat and talk figures with little meaning to him, and too much meaning to others. Saturday was housework day, Sunday was his allotted recuperation day. Sometimes Saturday afternoon or evening would be spent at with co-workers at an overpriced bar, or with Keith, his best friend and confidant on all that is that-hottie-from-the-cafe.

After Pidge wormed their way into Shiro’s life and heart, wrapped around his lungs and arteries likes a strangler vine, everything, yet nothing much at all, changed. Shiro still talks to plump, balding men in too-small suits about numbers that mean nothing to Shiro, but the entirety of a business to the men. He still cleanses his home and mind during his weekends, but his methods of doing so differ now.

On Saturdays, after Shiro has completed his house-cleaning rituals, Pidge visits with a recipe they want to try, ingredients weighing down on each of their arms, telling lines on their forearms of how much strain the bags put on their small frame. The two of them stand side by side in Shiro’s kitchen, reading  instructions, dicing vegetables and meats, rereading instructions, kissing in between steps on paper and on tiled floor. They are not children, but floury fingerprints on one another’s faces is inevitable. It usually starts with Pidge; they’ll lean onto tip-toes, use their thumb and forefinger to tug Shiro’s chin in their direction, and cup his face with hands covered in flour as they press a kiss to his mouth.

If Shiro ends up with a white handprint on his backside, Pidge doesn’t notify him, giggle caught behind a hand.

They eat their concoction on the living room couch, dishes piled in the sink to be forgotten until much later, Pidge’s feet in his lap, shins acting as his table for his plate. Every time they go through his, Shiro takes a bite, chews slowly as he looks to Pidge, blue light of the television reflecting on her skin, cheeks puffy with food behind them, and tells them, “It’s amazing.”

Pidge returns his gaze each time, and with mouth full, they manage to grumble out, “You’re amazing.”

If the weather permits it, if the sun is high in the sky and warmer than Shiro’s affections for Pidge, they spend their afternoons in at the park. They lay a blanket on the grass and sit a backpack full of snacks to the side. Pidge will lie on their stomach, propped up by their elbows, a textbook and notebook in front of them. Shiro brings his book of the month and settles in by their side, perpendicular to them, his head pillowed on the small of their back. They stay until the mosquitoes or darkness force them, most times.

They often end their night well into the early hours of Sunday, the distant light of the morning sun threatening to break across the horizon of the city. Shiro lays in his bed, bare beneath the quilt that pools at his waist, back pressed to the mattress, eyes looking down to Pidge. They use the joint of his arm and chest as a pillow, curls of ocean waves at sunset leaping from their scalp like birds in a rustled autumn tree. His hand, human, weaves through the curls and finds a home. It isn’t a display of dominance or authority, but rather a part of Shiro’s need for constant touch, and as much as he can get at that. Pidge’s breathing is long and slow, like the roll of an outgoing tide, only broken by the mouse-quiet squeaks that escape them as they stretch or rearrange their limbs.  

Shiro no longer needs to dedicate his Sunday to recuperating from the week before. By being in Pidge’s presence, the energy that bleeds from their being into the air around them, Shiro’s mood and mentality skyrockets. Rather than spending Sundays alone in his boxers, a facemask drying, one hand halfway down the Pringles can, Shiro spends it expanding his horizons in the kitchen with Pidge – sometimes _unrelated_ horizons, mind you

**Author's Note:**

> me: write ur polydins 5k min in canon planned fic  
> me to me: okay im hearing u but what if shidge coffee shop au
> 
> admittedly this isn't up to par with my normal stuff, but i won't bore you with my excuses. Hey. I wrote something. I'm doing better than you, dude


End file.
